


Stars and Flowers

by kingkonglomerate



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Post-Undertale Pacifist Route
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-12
Updated: 2017-09-13
Packaged: 2018-12-14 10:07:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11780919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingkonglomerate/pseuds/kingkonglomerate
Summary: The Barrier is broken. The Underground has emptied. At long last, thanks to the selfless actions of a single child, the hopes and dreams of his people have been fulfilled. From darkness to light, their path has finally lead them to a future: one that promises prosperity, reconciliation, and peace.But this future is not his. Though peace reigns on the Surface, it does not touch his heart. Haunted by his past and plagued with fear and guilt, he cannot bring himself to look forward.Even as he walks beneath the sky, the Mountain calls to its King.





	1. The Call of the Mountain

Stars.

Whenever he asked the others what their favourite things about the surface were, their answers almost always included the stars. Even as he hung his head, he could see them in his mind’s eye: glistening above them in all their mysterious splendour, like pale gems in the roof of a dark cavern. He remembered the looks of awe and wonder as the others gazed upon them for the first time—the quiet, inexpressible joy that danced in their eyes.

He was happy for them, truly. To see such hope in their eyes had warmed his old soul greatly. This was all he had ever wanted for them…all that he had ever wanted to give them.

He sighed.

As glad as he was for his friends, this was one joy he could not share with them, even if he desired to. He had beheld the night sky in ages past, and their presence now was only another reminder to him of all that had been lost on their journey. For it seemed to him that even the face of the heavens had changed, as though some of its lights had fallen away like wilted pedals from a dying stem. For the sake of peace, he did not wish to dwell on those casualties now.

He wondered quietly what she saw when she looked at them again; if she, too, was reminded of their journey here, and what it meant. Did she remember all those who had died? Those who had been forced from their homes and thrown into exile? Did she remember the children who wept with longing to see the sun again, and the parents who had no comfort to offer? Or was she, like the others, able to see this world with new eyes, unclouded by the past and filled with hope? Was she so forgiving as to look forward?

He smiled sadly to himself. Of course she was. She always had been, even when things were at their worst. Neither past nor future had ever been a burden to her.

He sighed again.

Still, he could not help regret that, with so many new and wondrous sights, so few of them took the time to notice some of the more subtle beauties of the surface. For all that he had inquired of their experiences, not one of them had mentioned the flowers. This was to be expected, he supposed; though far fewer than here, there had always been flowers, even in the miserable depths. Hopes and dreams are seldom occupied by things one already has, and what were a few flowers compared to the loftiness of the sky?

Yet it was these that occupied him and these which he allowed himself a small measure of enjoyment in. Their colours, their scents, their shapes—in so much variety! After so many years in darkness, he had almost forgotten…the contrast of bluebonnets, ruby phlox and red-violet winecups against green grass on a sunny day; the subtle palettes of rain lilies and the simple elegance of daisies; the beguiling allure of roses and prickly pears, and even the devilish buttercups had their quaint charm. It was truly amazing how much comfort these little things had given him over the years, and their absence now weighed upon him; though night brought the stars for others, it hid the flowers from him. It was in these dark hours that he had the fewest distractions…when the spectre of the past haunted him the most.

And so, as on many other sleepless nights, he had come here, to the foothills of the mountain, and pondered his course. As before, he saw two paths:

The first lead back to his friends, his newer home, and a future full of uncertainty.

The other lead here. To the past. To exile.

He closed his eyes and let out a slow breath.

They would miss him, he knew. They would wonder where he went, and perhaps even search for him. They would grieve for him when he did not return and wonder what fate befell him. But they would also have hope. They would have their future, their lives, and each other; and she would lead them far better than he ever could. He would take the past with him, and it would burden their futures no longer.

And if the worst came to pass…if the humans’ old fears were rekindled and history repeated itself, he would not have to endure it a second time.

But if he stayed…

His eyes opened.

No.

He could not. Not again.

He would miss them, he knew. He would think of them every day, hoping and praying for their well-being and happiness. At times he would fear the worst, as he was wont to do, but he would do so alone. Their lives at last would be their own, and history would forget him and the wounds he bore from it.

He looked back to the lights of the nearby settlement; at a life he knew was no longer his.

Bittersweet tears streamed from his eyes as his gaze fell once more, his weary feet now carrying him back the way he came.

One more day, he thought. One more day to make all the necessary preparations, to set his affairs in order…to indulge his selfish need to say goodbye.

As the stars made their way to their resting place beyond the horizon, King Asgore Dreemurr followed them one last time, marching through the meadows on the foothills of Mount Ebott.


	2. Morning Reflections

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which it took the author one month to get Asgore out of his house.

He awoke to the usual sensations of the morning: the sun’s golden rays shining on his face (the brightness of which he and the others were still becoming accustomed to), the noisy chatter of song birds (creatures which Undyne once unflatteringly referred to as “pathetic little noisemakers that couldn’t get a Whimsun off the ground”), and the sound of rattling collagen that signified Papyrus’ morning exercise routine.

He took a moment to savour these familiarities before he sat up, stretching and yawning loudly. His feet soon found their way to the floor and into his favourite pair of fuzzy slippers, and his bed creaked and groaned as he lifted his immense frame from it, as did his bones and joints as he finished getting up with one last, mighty stretch. 

Though in truth he had not aged for many years, he imagined, at times like these, that he had something of an inkling of what it meant to feel “old.”

With his mind still somewhat in the haze of sleep, his body set about his morning routine. As he knelt down next to his bedside table, his hand found the handle of a small, tin watering can. This he carried to his kitchen, his heavy footfalls muffled by his slippers, and to the sink therein. Holding the little can under the faucet, he turned the blue “c” nozzle and noted the peculiarly pleasant sound of water on metal as the vessel was filled. Once it was, without skipping a beat, his other hand found a nearby kettle, which he similarly proceeded to fill. Once this was done, he set it down on the stove, absently conjuring a small, warm flame at its base as he walked back towards his bed, still holding the little tin can.

As the water in the kettle began to boil, he poured out the cool liquid of the can into the soil of the potted Golden Flower on his bedside table—one of the few souvenirs from New Home he kept with him. When the soil was sufficiently moist, he set the can down, opened the drawer of the table and retrieved a small pair of tweezers. With these in hand, he hovered carefully over the flower and gently plucked a few of its smaller petals, depositing each in his free hand. Satisfied, he placed the tweezers back in their designated place within the drawer (next to a few spare buttons and a certain locket) and said a quiet word of thanks to the plant before returning to the kitchen. 

Retrieving a small, clay mortar and pestle from one of the cupboards, he deposited the petals inside and began to gently grind them down into a somewhat fine powder (one had to be careful not to overdo it here). Once this was finished, he reached into another cupboard and retrieved a large, ceramic teapot and a single teacup. This particular pot was decorated with painted images of Golden Flowers; protuberant vines entwined around the spout, and even the lid was shaped like a Golden bloom. (Undyne had always laughed at him for his particular fondness of this pot, which she often called “tacky.” To this day, he still did not understand her distaste for it). As if on cue, the kettle began to emit a piercing squeal as the steam within finally began to escape. (Ages ago this sound, without fail, would cause Toriel—seated in her armchair and engrossed in some book—to jump and squeak rather ungracefully. This amused him greatly, which infuriated her even moreso). Retrieving his flame, he scraped the ground petals into the pot before lifting the kettle and pouring its contents in as well, the steam brushing his face and dampening his fur. With the last few drops deposited, he returned the kettle to its place, placed the lid on the pot once more and carried both pot and cup to a small, round table, setting both upon its oaken surface and sitting on one of its three chairs (guests often came in twos, but he kept a few other chairs in a nearby closet just in case).

With his tea steeping and cooling, he spared a moment of thought to take in the surroundings of his home, idly fondling the small cup in his large hands.

This hovel was much smaller than his old house in the Capital; the kitchen, dining, sitting and even sleeping areas were all contained in a single, open room, and only the bathroom and a single closet were segregated by doors from this main area. Still, it was more than enough to accommodate him; living alone meant he only had to keep limited furnishings, and he never felt pressed for space.

He poured some of the still steaming tea into his cup (which was decorated similarly to the pot) and took a cautious sip.

This house was just one of many they had built for themselves after coming to the Surface. After the initial shock had somewhat abated and they were assured of their peaceful intentions, the humans had allowed them to settle this area on the outskirts of Ebott city—a sprawling urban metropolis that dwarfed the Capital. Officially, the two peoples were mutually permitted to intermingle as they pleased; given the somewhat tenuous nature of newly formed diplomatic agreements, however, most of them had chosen to live among themselves in small settlements—for a time, at least.

He took another, more confident sip.

Though for now they remained distant to each other, he doubted this would last. These humans were, in many respects, much different from the ones he remembered. While they were certainly initially shocked at their sudden arrival, this soon dissolved; contrary to his expectations, they expressed more curiosity in his kind than fear. 

A great deal of this, he supposed, was due to ignorance: the War between their peoples had happened many ages ago, and any memory of it—or even his kind—among the humans had long since passed into legend. Unlike him, none of their kind lived much longer than a century, and there were certainly none alive now who would have been present for those terrible events. It seemed the generations had not preserved the memory of his people on the Surface—and he supposed that was for the best.

He drained the last few drops from his cup and poured himself another.

More strangely, however, was that these humans seemed to have little to no knowledge of SOULs, at least not in the sense that they did. From what he was able to gather from Dr. Alphys’ rather dense explanation, a SOUL was, to humans, more of an idea than a reality. Though opinions on the matter varied somewhat among them based on their beliefs, there was a sort of consensus that a SOUL (or “soul,” as they called it) was something mostly or wholly separate from the affairs of day-to-day life, which was concerned mostly with the “material” rather than the “metaphysical” (he believed those were the terms that she had used). Humans, being themselves mostly physical, apparently gave little thought to matters concerning other planes of reality; to his amazement, Alphys had said that there were even some among them who denied the existence of other planes altogether. 

Regardless of what they believed, however, the encompassing ignorance was not without consequences: firstly, over time, the humans had all but lost any knowledge or practice of magic—something which was viewed with a similar detachment. This particular fact was, to him, perhaps the most difficult to swallow; to live without magic, even a knowledge of magic, seemed…impossible. The thought of being so out of touch with such an integral part of the world was almost more than he could conceive. It would be like being blind or deaf, but within one’s very…soul.

He drained his second cup.

Still, this ignorance was not without its benefits. The SOUL, being viewed with such alienation, was not something many humans feared to lose, or even imagined could be lost. It was therefore of little concern to them that a monster could absorb one. The great fear which had spurred them to war so long ago was viewed as little more than an idle superstition now.

And that, perhaps, was also for the best.

He stood, cup and pot in hand, and went over to the sink to wash them, along with the mortar and pestle that still sat there, humming an old tune softly all the while. When he had finished, rather than returning them to their respective cupboards, he set them aside. These, he had decided, would be among the few things he would take with him.

He smiled sadly.

He had not yet made a full inventory of what belongings he would bring with him on his departure; in truth, he hardly needed to. It would not be a long journey, and much of what he would need afterwards would be waiting for him in his old home in New Home (He supposed he would have to think of a more suitable name for that place now. Old-New Home, perhaps?). But now was not the time for such things; with only a day to set his affairs in order, planning for the journey was the least of his concerns. All that concerned him now was how he might give adequate time to those whom he desired to give it.

The dishes were washed, and now it was his turn. Turning from the kitchen, he made his way to the small chamber at the other end of his home. Here he turned on another faucet, grabbed another watering can, and watered another plant—a peace lily. He then returned to the faucet, running its cool water into his cupped hands before soaking his sleep-crusted face with it (and quietly hoping he had remembered to replace the towel he had recently laundered). He repeated this motion once more, turned off the faucet and looked up into the small, ornate mirror that hung above the basin.

The recent spell of melancholy had evidently taken its toll on his appearance; even by his lowest standards, the sight was a rather sorry one. The fur of his face and ears were matted and coarse, as was the mane of gold hair that surrounded them. His horns were also looking especially gnarled and asymmetrical. Besides all this, two deep shadows hung beneath his eyes, betraying his recent bouts of insomnia.

He sighed disappointedly. This would not do at all. He could not let this be the last impression he left to his loved ones, no matter how honest it was. Time was of the essence, but he resigned himself to the fact that he would need some of it to touch himself up. With this endeavour in mind, he turned to a small cabinet that hung on the adjacent wall, retrieving from it a comb, a pair of small scissors, a few vials of scents and oils, a container of white powder, a small brush, and a large file.

He began with his disheveled hair and fur, using the comb and some oil (extracted himself from a certain plant) to smooth the tangled mess into submission. This was the most difficult and painful process, and he encountered no small amount of stubborn knots which he was forced to pry through with the blessedly sturdy comb. Once some semblance of order was given to these strands, he moved to the scissors and began to trim away the stray offshoots and particularly matted patches (all the while being careful that none of these fell into the basin, lest he leave the next tenant with a clogged sink). Once he was sure than nothing more need be removed, he took one last dab of oil and combed it through the entirety, flourishing his golden mane into smooth waves and turning his white fur into a seamless cover.

He came to his horns next, brandishing the large file and rubbing out the various knots and gnarls along the the length of each. Here he had to be particularly careful to maintain a certain degree of symmetry; nothing was quite as shameful to a member of his kind as wearing uneven horns. (He recalled a time when Toriel, before their marriage, had played a particularly cruel prank on him to this extent. It took no small amount of forgiveness on his part to reach an engagement thereafter). Once he was reasonably satisfied in this regard, he opened another vial of oil and coated each of them with a modest finish, so that they just gently reflected the warm light in the room.

Finally he came to the dark circles of his eyes. While there was no way to heal these naturally with the allotted time, he knew of a temporary alternative. Opening the container of white powder, he gently dabbed the end of the small brush in it. This he brought to the circle beneath this right eye, applying the substance with small strokes. At first this cover-up was quite evident, but next he applied just a touch of oil to smooth out the powdery texture into a fine, white glaze. The result was most satisfactory; only with a scrutinizing eye could one make out the slightly different hue of the circle from the surrounding fur. Repeating this process beneath his left eye, he looked as though he had not lost a wink of sleep in recent memory.

He stood up at full height and assessed his work in the mirror.

He could hardly believe he was the same monster that had walked in here only minutes ago: The gleaming hair of his mane which had been tangled and wild was now parted into two elegant waves on the top and one sleek curve on the bottom, and his fur too was now smooth and soft like untouched snow. Atop these his horns stood tall and proud upon his scalp, nought but the direction of their curves distinguishing them. Even the dark circles that had bruised his gaze were hidden almost perfectly by his clever application of powder and oil. Besides all this, the combined scents of the oils had given him a pleasant, flowery fragrance.

He looked a hundred years younger, and perhaps even felt that way, too.

After replacing the supplies into the cupboard (these he would leave behind), he briefly ventured to the closet to retrieve a broom and dustpan to sweep up the excess fur, horn dust, and powder from the bathroom floor, depositing them into a small waste bin.

There was only one more matter to attend to before the day could truly begin. Returning the supplies to the closet, he shut its door, let out a resolute breath, and made his way to the large, oaken wardrobe next to his bed. 

Its amber hinges creaked as he opened it. 

Hanging within on either side were two outfits, each with their own story. On the left was his full royal regalia: a golden breastplate and pauldron, purple robe and bejewelled crown all mounted on a large bust, resembling some kingly spectre as it stood at his full height.

On the right hung a pink, hand-knit sweater. On its front, in crude, bright red letters, it read “Mr. Dad Guy.” 

He had not worn this sweater in many years.

He considered his options.

Most of them knew him best from the impressive garb mounted on the left, though in truth it was not his preferred attire. As king, this set had been an important symbol, representing an office that he had taken very seriously and had sought to embody as best he knew. It was a mark both of his royal authority and, more importantly, his role as a representative of his people. When others would look to him for guidance and hope, this outfit—mere material though it was—was an assurance of their expectations.

But that role had passed him now. With their dreams fulfilled, there was no reason for him to imitate such hopes.

The article on the right was known only to a few. It was one of his last ties to a life now lost to him.

A large, white hand reached out and gently grasped its hem, rubbing the cotton between its thumb and index finger--feeling its texture, remembering its coarse softness.

The day he received this work of untrained hands was one he cherished dearly. In his minds eye, he could still see their strange eyes gleaming with unbridled expectation.

But this, too, had passed. He would not insult the memory of those days by feigning to relive them in such a cheap manner.

He sighed.

Beneath the sweater were a number of drawers containing more everyday items. He opened one of these and found a bright pink t-shirt adorned with several white flowers. In another he found a pair of loose-fitting purple pants and a fresh pair of spotted undergarments.

These would do.

He began to undress, unbuttoning his silky pyjama shirt, gingerly removing the bottoms, and stepping out of his slippers. The clothing he placed in a hamper next to the dresser, along with his old undergarments. He proceeded to dress himself in the simple summer attire.

Once he was fully clothed, he closed the wardrobe with another creak and walked over to a nearby vanity, regarding himself in its mirror.

His work was finished, he thought. To all appearances, he seemed nothing more than a kindly old man, ready perhaps to spend the day tending his garden.

As good a last impression as any.

He made his way to the front door.

Grasping the bronze knob, he took one final breath before turning it and opening the portal outward into the wider world, the morning sun casting his large silhouette against its frame before he closed it behind him.


End file.
